


being but men

by Quietbang



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bucky Feels, Cold, Cold War, Friendship, Gen, Great Depression, Ice, Illnesses, Imagery, Internalised Homophobia, Love, M/M, PTSD, Poetry, Poverty, Romance, Starvation, Steve Feels, World War II, star-crossed lovers, taking care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:32:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quietbang/pseuds/Quietbang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is warm. Is Warmth, and that's important, because Bucky has always hated the cold. </p>
<p>Or, a story of James Barnes and Steve Rogers told in glimpses through history.</p>
            </blockquote>





	being but men

It's cold. 

The coldest winter since before the war, is what the old man in the chemist's said, and smiled a bit at Bucky's expression when he said it, before taking his coins and explaining the best way to apply the poultice.   
He didn't say it smelled, though. Hell, the whole room smells, now, like camphor and mustard powder, and it must burn like hell but Rogers' screws up his _stupid_ face an shakes his head when Bucky asks him if it hurts.   
He ain't scared. He _ain't_. They've had worse nights than this--  
 _but that was back in the orphanage where there was a nurse if it got too bad, an even Sister Teresa, with her moustache and stern eyes, hadta be better'n Bucky himself_

a choking cough pulls him out of his thoughts, and he shifts his body in the bed- only one, only one mattress between the two of them and normally he'd let Steve have it to himself but it's too damn cold to sleep on the floor on a pile of blankets, and they shared a bed in the orphanage too, ain't like there's anything _funny_ about it- until he's behind Steve entirely, so close to the damned mustard plaster he can feel the heat on his own skin , and says, trying his best to hide the shake in his voice

"You're ok, Rogers. Breathe, buddy. Just try, huh? Breathe." And it's nonsense, and it ain't helping, and Steve keeps coughing and coughing and his breaths between the coughs are getting shorter, wounded half-gasps that sound like someone playing a trumpet funny, and Bucky wants to shake him but he might break him at that, so he keeps it up, a litany of half-mumbled comforting nonsense, trying to project calm because Steve's panicking, and he's not breathing proper, and he's going to fucking die if he doesn't calm down--

"C'mon, man," Bucky whispers, "It's all right, huh? You can breathe, Steve, know you can, just--" and in desperation he pulls Steve's small frame on top of him entirely, --and he's too fucking light by half but Bucky's already sneaking him half his own food, any more'n he'd suspects, and a small selfish voice in his head points out that he can't afford to give more than that, you can see Bucky's ribs as well-- and breathes, slowly and calmly, in-1-2-3 out 1-2-3, trying desperately to get Rogers to follow the pattern, to get a bit more oxygen in between the coughs, and his body is burning up but his feet and hands are on top of Bucky now and they're like ice, and finally the knot of phlegm seems to loosen a little, and he spits into a handkerchief, and there's some more coughing and spluttering, but it isn't as bad now. 

"Christ, Rogers," Bucky mutters, "Scared the shit out of me there. Thought you were a gonner, and then who'd I split the rent with, huh?"

It's dark, but some light is reflecting off the frozen streets and through the window, and he can almost make out Rogers' face as he smiles. 

"You'd find someone else," he whispers, his voice so rough and soft it's barely there, and Bucky knows how bad it must hurt but the water's on the ground floor, a long cold walk this time of year, and besides ice water can't be good for a chest fever. 

"Oh yeah? Like who?" He jostles Steve a little. 

"I hear the Nolan brothers are lookin for a place, you could split three ways. You know. If I weren't around."

_they wouldn't want me_ , is what's not said, and no, no, maybe that's part of it but what it really is is _I might not be around_ and _I don't want you to starve_ and Bucky swears then, swears up and down that if this _fucking_ winter ever ends and they're alive to see it, there were good times after the Great War, they said, and these times can't last forever, FDR says so, and if they're not all liars and it does then he's gonna get a real job, a good one, at a building site or something, enough to pay rent _and_ get food and medicine and Steve'll do something clever, something where he don't have to go outside too much in the cold and catch things, nd they'll stay together like the brothers they are and they'll be _free_. 

((Bucky never knew his parents, was raised by his Gran till she got too sick, but he knew Mrs Rogers a bit when they were kids and Steve was always saying that's what it was about, why she came here in the first place, _to be free_. And Bucky never was too good at school, but he knows that this ain't it. This ain't free.))

"Don't be stupid," he snaps. "They're morons, anyway."

Steve snorts a little, and immediately groans in pain. "F-fair 'nough." 

"Y'okay?"

"F-fine," Steve wheezes, and then goes abruptly silent. 

The silence scares Bucky more'n the coughing ever did. 

"Hey, Steve," he says, shaking him by the shoulder a little bit. 

No response. 

He shakes harder. 

Steve groaned. "M'tired. S'wrong?"

Feeling foolishly greatful, he quickly said "I can't sleep."

It wasn't quite a lie. 

Steve grumbled. "S'not my fault is it? Why not?"

Bucky was silent. "No reason. I--" Aw, hell, might as well go for it. "I keep thinking you're dead."

"What?" Steve frowned through the fever. "That's stupid, Buck. I ain't dead."

"Yeah, I know it. I just- I just keep _thinking_ it."

Steve is silent. 

"Steve?"

"I was in the library 'fore I got sick, you know. Mr Cartwright gave me fifty cents for cleaning out the archives."

Bucky knew. He was pretty sure that was why Steve got sick, this time, and that money had gone almost immediately to the mustard plasters and the end of tongue from the Butcher's, reject soup greens from the grocer's. Together, it made a thin broth that was nearly all Steve could keep down when he got sick. 

"Yeah, I know, buddy."

"I saw- do you remember, in the geography primer, those Arab fellas? With the turbans n'such?"

"Yeah." He did. Sort of. He'd never been any good at school, he could write and figure enough to sign his name and figure out if he was bein gypped, but that was it. Didn't have the head for it like Steve, and if Bucky'd had his way Steve woulda stayed all the way through, gone to high school and a diploma, but he was a loyal bastard, an' no sooner had Bucky announced he was done that Steve had said he'd go with him. He was stupid like that. 

"Well, there was this book," here a deep wheeze, ending in a moan. It was a few seconds before Steve got up the breath to speak again. "An' it had a fella like that on the cover, all blues and golds and reds an-" a cough, but not as bad as the last few. Maybe the mustard plaster was working. "'and it was a book of poems, see, so after I was done and Mr Cartwright had paid, I went back and looked at it, just sat down at one of the tables and read it, and there was this one, it sounded like--" A deep intake of breath, followed by a long choking exhale-- "It was like a song, almost. Wanna hear it?" 

Bucky smiled, despite himself. "What, did you memorise it or something?"

A series of hacking coughs shook Rogers' small frame and took the smile off Bucky's face. "Yeah," he said, when he'd gotten his breath back. "Yeah, so what if I did? Be nice or I won't tell it to you."

Bucky smirked. "G'wan then."

Steve took a deep breath, and started, his voice so harsh and soft as to be almost silent. "I met a traveller from an antique land..."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They never mentioned the cold in the recruitment posters. 

There was a lot of things they didn't mention, of course, like the lice and the food and the sound a man makes afore he's realised he's properly died, but they never mentioned the cold neither. 

Bucky glanced around the dark tent. They were all asleep, looked like. Smart guys, them. They were going to the front tomorrow, relieving the battle-weary and poorly outfitted collection of Allied troops at their section of the Paris line, mostly Canadians and Aussies left now, folks who'd been there since the start of winter and badly needed some new blood and a break. 

Bucky'd heard stories, from the men who'd been to the Front and back, about the mud and the cold and the bodies stuck in the trenches for days, you just had to live with them, ignore the rats the size of dogs who'd be out in the night to feast on rotting flesh. 

Bucky knew men who'd served in the Great War. He wonders if maybe all along, he and Steve and every other stupid kid with a thirst for glory and a taste for guns'd been asking them the wrong questions. 

It don't matter. Bucky survived the worst winter in Brooklyn. Steve got pneumonia twice, and the last time left him sick and shaky for the better part of a year. The cold will never defeat Bucky. 

He shivers, and pulls his bedroll tighter 'round his shoulders. 

Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulls out the scraps of muddy paper that everyone assumes are from a sweetheart, the way he treats 'em. 

Steve, his Steve, is living something out of a dime store novel, and his letters are full of amazing things, stories of chorus girls and beautiful women and mad men inventors. They're also angry, though he tries to hide it, and Bucky is selfishly glad, glad that Steve isn't at the front, glad that wherever he is Steve is _warm_. 

His latest one has a scrap of a poem in it, Steve always did like that stuff, that he says he read in the paper- _For the miraculous birth, there always must be/ Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating/  
On a pond at the edge of the wood_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It doesn't get cold enough to really freeze them out in Italy, and somehow that makes it worse because everything is not just cold but it's _wet_ , mold on everything and it's not like they're warm enough to go without blankets.   
It's still cold, but not cold enough to kill you, and everything smells like shit. 

It doesn't matter. Steve's here, Steve's here and he's huge and he's-- Bucky's brain doesn't quite let him think _beautiful_ and instead returns again to _huge_ \-- and he saved them, just like he used to in the yarns he used to tell, all about Steve and Bucky and how they'd save the world. 

Schoolboy fantasies. Everyone has them. Steve's just the sort of unlucky bastard for whom they come _true_ , and when they do they come with having to scrape mold off your bedroll and camps of people who are dead, or not dead, or not dead enough to be safe, and Bucky tries real hard not to think about it but sometimes it's all he _can_ think about and it's terrifying, he's going mad but he doesn't have _time_ , Steve's here and they're going to win the war. 

They kiss in a forest in Western Poland, because Bucky's hands are shaking for no reason at all and he can't stop, can't stop thinking, if he stops think he'll die but he just wants to _sleep_ and at first, Bucky thinks that Steve just did it to calm him down, to jolt him out of wherever he was, and he wants to laugh it off until he looks up and sees that Rogers looks fucking terrified, like he's just done something awful, but Bucky's spent years trying to parse the state of Steve through the language of eyebrows and lips, and he knows that that isn't the look Steve gets when something awful's happened.   
It's the look he gets when he gets something he wants, and knows it will be taken away. 

And so Bucky raises a shaking hand and Steve flinches, and when he rests it on Steve's cheek all he can think is that Steve is warm and he is cold, so cold. 

In a horse voice, Steve whispers "Oh let not time deceive you/ You cannot conquer Time."

"I have no idea what that means," Bucky says honestly, but his voice cracks. 

Steve is the light around which everything burns. 

Nobody ever told Bucky that heat can destroy as easily as cold. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The Winter Soldier does not feel cold. He _is_ the cold, in his ruthlessness and his grace. He freezes everything he touches, his beautiful cruelty and metallic arm glinting in the frost. 

He is ice. 

The girl is fire, her lips and her hair red, red like the Motherland, red where the Yasha is black and white and ice. 

They teach her the same things, the same songs as he, but when he says them they are cold and lifeless, a reminder of the drudgery of a Soviet winter, and when she--

they are light, they are flames, they are belief. 

 

She burns too brightly, and her flame thaws his ice so sometimes, late at night, he wakes up and remembers what it is to feel the cold. 

They take her away after that, and when she disappears it is beautiful, not an explosion but a controlled burn, and though they want to send the Winter Soldier after her they have learned from their mistakes. Fire and ice make water, and water is under nobody's control but its own. 

They send him after the other red one instead, Captain America, and his red is not red like fire or red like blood but red like poppies, red like spring after a long winter, and if he burns at all he burns gold like the sun, like a challenge to the gods. 

His burn isn't like the girl's. It isn't controlled, but wild, like joy or loss or a thousand other emotions that must be forfeit to survive the winter, and it warms everything it touched. 

And Yasha- James- _Bucky_ -

\--he melts. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Steve hates the cold. Keeps his apartment a few degrees above room temperature, wraps himself in woolen sweaters whenever he can, even though his body uns a few degrees higher than the normal person's anyways. 

It's strange, to be in bed with Steve burning up without it being cause for panic. 

Steve is warm. Is Warmth, and that's a distinction Bucky is beginning to be okay with making. 

He mumbles in his sleep, a frown creasing his face that is still so young-- but so is Bucky's, and they've both lived a thousand lives, the list of those whom them must mourn is a mile wide, and the hungry ghosts await at every corner--

Steve ignores them. He always does. He ignores them, because they are dangerous and Steve will still do anything to protect his family. 

Instead he presses himself into Steve's side, searching for the heat. His metal arm has been removed and replaced, and even though it could have been shiny, perfect, never showing wear or tear, either Steve had a word with Tony or the man is more perceptive than he gives himself credit for, because it's matte, a dull silver that shows age and wear, scratches or gouges remaining after battle. 

Steve understands. He, among all people, knows the value of history. 

He presses in further, and Steve stirs, groaning. "Mmrph. Bucky? S'wrong?"

"Nothing," Bucky says, instantly feeling bad. "Go back to sleep."

But Steve is blinking now, pushing himself up on his elbows and someone must hear Bucky's silent prayer because he doesn't turn on the light. 

"Can't sleep?"

Bucky grunt. 

Steve groans, stretching and popping his shoulders, before burrowing back down into the blankets. "I read something today."

"Really." Bucky says flatly. "Imagine my surprise. I'm sure Sister Catherine would leap with joy that you remember her lessons."

Steve punched him, lightly. "Shut up. No, I read something, and it reminded me of you, a bit."

"Oh yeah?" Bucky says, feeling wary. 

"Hush." He pulled Bucky close to him. Bucky could feel his heartbeat. 

"Now, how'd it go..." he mused. 

_Being but men, we walked into the trees_  
Afraid, letting our syllables be soft  
For fear of waking the rooks,  
For fear of coming  
Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries. 

_If we were children we might climb,_  
Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig,  
And, after the soft ascent,  
Thrust out our heads above the branches  
To wonder at the unfailing stars. 

_Out of confusion, as the way is,_  
And the wonder, that man knows,  
Out of the chaos would come bliss. 

_That, then, is loveliness, we said,_  
Children in wonder watching the stars,  
Is the aim and the end. 

_Being but men, we walked into the trees._

**Author's Note:**

> The first work referenced is _Ozymandias_ , a poem by Percy Shelley that goes:  
>  _I met a traveller from an antique land  
>  Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone  
> Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,  
> Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,  
> And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,  
> Tell that its sculptor well those passions read  
> Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,  
> The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:  
> And on the pedestal these words appear:  
> "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:  
> Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"  
> Nothing beside remains. Round the decay  
> Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare  
> The lone and level sands stretch far away  
> _
> 
> The second reference is by WH Auden, _Musée des Beaux Arts_ , which takes its title from the Paris Museum of the same name and reads as follows: 
> 
> _About suffering they were never wrong,_  
>  The old Masters: how well they understood  
> Its human position: how it takes place  
> While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;  
> How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting  
> For the miraculous birth, there always must be  
> Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating  
> On a pond at the edge of the wood:  
> They never forgot  
> That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course  
> Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot  
> Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse  
> Scratches its innocent behind on a tree. 
> 
> _In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away_  
>  Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may  
> Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,  
> But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone  
> As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green  
> Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen  
> Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,  
> Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on. 
> 
> The third poem is again by Auden, because you're not gonna have a fic involving a gay love affair in the 1930s and 40s _not_ reference Auden, especially if one of them is an artsy type.   
>  It's called "As I Walked Out One Evening"  
> As I Walked Out One Evening
> 
>  
> 
> by W. H. Auden
> 
> As I walked out one evening,  
>  Walking down Bristol Street,  
> The crowds upon the pavement  
>  Were fields of harvest wheat.
> 
> And down by the brimming river  
>  I heard a lover sing  
> Under an arch of the railway:  
>  'Love has no ending.
> 
> 'I'll love you, dear, I'll love you  
>  Till China and Africa meet,  
> And the river jumps over the mountain  
>  And the salmon sing in the street,
> 
> 'I'll love you till the ocean  
>  Is folded and hung up to dry  
> And the seven stars go squawking  
>  Like geese about the sky.
> 
> 'The years shall run like rabbits,  
>  For in my arms I hold  
> The Flower of the Ages,  
>  And the first love of the world.'
> 
> But all the clocks in the city  
>  Began to whirr and chime:  
> 'O let not Time deceive you,  
>  You cannot conquer Time.
> 
> 'In the burrows of the Nightmare  
>  Where Justice naked is,  
> Time watches from the shadow  
>  And coughs when you would kiss.
> 
> 'In headaches and in worry  
>  Vaguely life leaks away,  
> And Time will have his fancy  
>  To-morrow or to-day.
> 
> 'Into many a green valley  
>  Drifts the appalling snow;  
> Time breaks the threaded dances  
>  And the diver's brilliant bow.
> 
> 'O plunge your hands in water,  
>  Plunge them in up to the wrist;  
> Stare, stare in the basin  
>  And wonder what you've missed.
> 
> 'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,  
>  The desert sighs in the bed,  
> And the crack in the tea-cup opens  
>  A lane to the land of the dead.
> 
> 'Where the beggars raffle the banknotes  
>  And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,  
> And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,  
>  And Jill goes down on her back.
> 
> 'O look, look in the mirror,  
>  O look in your distress:  
> Life remains a blessing  
>  Although you cannot bless.
> 
> 'O stand, stand at the window  
>  As the tears scald and start;  
> You shall love your crooked neighbour  
>  With your crooked heart.'
> 
> It was late, late in the evening,  
>  The lovers they were gone;  
> The clocks had ceased their chiming,  
>  And the deep river ran on. 
> 
> The final poem is called "Being but Men"and is by Dylan Thomas, my all-time favourite poet. This poem is far more poignant if you know the rest of his work, so I highly recommend checking him out.


End file.
